Chapter 45: Apples, Myths, and Stranger Nights

The warmth of the campfire flickered between them, casting shadows across the clearing as Dorian approached the three knights.

“Well met,” he said with a roguish grin, strumming his lute softly before slinging it back over his shoulder. “I’m a wandering bard, curious about the world’s stories, songs, and whatever trouble might come along.”

The man with the mustache, seated cross-legged with both hands resting lightly on the pommels of his twin swords, grinned in return. “A wandering bard, huh? I’m Tache. Leader of this little band, and these—” he gestured to the dual blades resting on the ground near him— “are my companions.”

The woman next to him, still sipping from her mug, set it down and gave Dorian a slight nod. Her lance lay close by, its polished steel catching the firelight. “Selyse,” she said simply, her voice steady and calm. “Second-in-command, and I keep the boys in line.”

The third knight, the towering figure with the massive shield, didn’t look up from tending the spit over the fire. His helmet obscured his face as he grumbled, “Ralnor. Shield.” Without further explanation, he turned the spit slowly, the smell of roasted deer filling the clearing.

Tache laughed heartily, slapping his knee. “Ralnor’s always like that. He talks less than I drink, which, as Selyse here will tell you, is no small feat.”

Dorian chuckled, settling down near the fire. The four talked in light tones, keeping the conversation surface level. They shared their respective travels—nothing too personal, just enough to let the warmth of camaraderie fill the chilly night.

“Deer,” Ralnor said suddenly, passing a freshly carved piece of meat to Dorian without lifting his head.

“Thanks,” Dorian said, taking the offering gratefully. He rummaged through his bag and produced the apples he had bought earlier that day. “Here,” he said, holding them out, “a little something to go with dinner.”

Selyse glanced at the apples suspiciously. “A magic bag?” she asked, tilting her head.

Dorian blinked. “A what?”

“A bag enchanted to preserve anything inside,” she clarified. “Otherwise, how’d you keep these so fresh?”

Tache leaned in with mock seriousness. “Is our little bard dabbling in forbidden arts?”

Dorian tore off a piece of the deer meat, exaggerating his indignation with a dramatic flourish. “You’re both wrong!” He paused for effect, then continued, grinning triumphantly. “I bought them from the nearby village.”

The trio exchanged looks. Ralnor, now chewing on a piece of meat, set down his carving knife and removed his helmet. His young, broad face was framed by unruly brown hair, damp with sweat. “No village nearby,” he said flatly, before resuming his meal.

Dorian’s laughter faltered. “Wait, what?”

As he recounted the strange atmosphere of the village and its peculiar residents, leaving out the pendant's reaction, the knights listened intently.

“I’m telling you, it was eerie,” Dorian concluded. “The place felt like it was... hiding something.”

Tache leaned back against a rock, arms crossed as a sly grin spread across his face. “Sounds like a fairy tale come to life,” he said. “You stumbled into Skaernsvall.”

“Skaernsvall?”

“A mythical place,” Tache explained. “Northerners have whispered about it for centuries. Some call it a blessing; others, a curse. The legend says it’s a village between realms—heaven for those who pass through, but hell for anyone foolish enough to stay. Those who leave can buy goods of unimaginable quality. But those who linger? They become part of the village. Forever.”

Selyse added, her expression thoughtful, “It started as a hopeful tale. During harsh winters, people would speak of Skaernsvall as a way to keep going. It was a dream to chase when reality grew too grim. But none of us really believed it existed... until now.”

Dorian’s jaw tightened as he processed their words. “So you’re saying I almost got kidnapped by some enchanted ghost village, and you’re just going to shrug it off?”

Tache burst into laughter, clapping him on the shoulder. “At least you’re alive, eh? Count your blessings, bard.”

Selyse smirked, tossing one of the apples in her hand. “Anyway, what exactly did you buy from this heavenly village?”

“The apples,” Dorian said, gesturing toward the fruit they were holding.

Ralnor took a bite of the apple. His chewing slowed as his eyes widened, then glazed over as if he were momentarily stunned.

Tache, taking a bite himself, froze mid-laugh. “By the gods,” he muttered, his voice muffled by the mouthful of apple.

Selyse, skeptically nibbling at hers, didn’t say a word. Instead, her expression softened, her guarded demeanor slipping away as she stared up at the sky with a wistful smile.

Dorian hesitated, then took a bite. The sweetness hit him immediately—a flavor so pure and rich that it seemed to transcend taste itself. The world around him momentarily faded, leaving only the apple and the blissful, golden sensation it brought.

If anyone had passed by the clearing, they would have been greeted by a strange sight: three knights and a bard lying back around the fire, gazing up at the stars with big, goofy smiles, each holding a half-eaten apple in hand.

“Alright,” Dorian finally said, breaking the silence. “I take back my complaints about the village.”

The group erupted into laughter, the sound echoing in the cool northern night.

As the stars shimmered above, and the faint crackling of the campfire filled the quiet moments, Dorian adjusted the brim of his newly acquired hat and leaned forward slightly. “So,” he began, breaking the companionable silence, “where are you lot headed?”

Tache stretched his legs, resting an arm lazily over the pommel of one of his swords. “The northern duchy,” he said. “It’s home—or as close as we’ve got to one.”

Dorian blinked, surprised. “The duchy? Huh. That’s where I’m heading too. Looks like fate just handed me some good company for the road.”

Tache grinned. “Then come along. Beats wandering into more ghost villages solo.”

The bard rolled his eyes, chuckling. “One enchanted village, and you’re never going to let me live it down, are you?”

“Nope,” Selyse replied with a smirk, brushing off her lance. “Honestly, it explains a lot. Let me guess—you’ve been wandering north without so much as a map?”

Dorian shrugged. “Bards aren’t meant to stick to the straight and narrow. The ‘wandering’ part is what makes me authentic.”

Ralnor rumbled a low laugh, his mouth half-full of deer meat. “Authentic is one word for it.”

The group shared an easy round of laughter, the kind only found around a fire in the stillness of the wilderness.

After the laughter subsided, Dorian looked at them curiously. “What about you all? What brings you out here, wandering back home?”

Tache leaned forward, prodding the fire with a stick. “Work, mostly. The eastern front’s been keeping people like us busy for years. Plenty of noble disputes over territory, resources—you name it. War pays for mercenary bands like ours, but let’s just say the eastern jobs have a way of sapping your soul. We figured it was time to head home and regroup for a while.”

“So you’re mercenaries,” Dorian mused.

Selyse nodded. “The Silver Wolf Mercenaries, to be specific. Tache leads. I handle the boring logistics, and Ralnor here bashes heads.”

Ralnor simply shrugged, his broad shoulders rising and falling in one slow, deliberate motion. “I bash well.”

Dorian grinned. “What, no official song yet?”

“Not yet,” Tache replied with a sly smirk. “Care to compose one, bard?”

“Depends on the pay,” Dorian joked.

The firelight flickered across Dorian’s face as he considered them more closely. There was something about their dynamic that felt more intimate than a standard mercenary band.

“You know,” Dorian started, “you three don’t act like most mercenaries I’ve met. No offense, but... it seems like there’s more to your story than just camaraderie.”

The knights exchanged a glance, their expressions flickering with something unspoken.

Tache finally broke the silence, his tone softer than before. “We’re sworn siblings,” he said, his voice carrying a weight Dorian hadn’t expected. “Not by blood, but by something stronger. We met at our lowest points, and together, we’ve risen to where we are now. We have each other’s backs. Always.”

There was a pause, thick with the kind of memories no one voiced aloud. Dorian didn’t press further. Some stories didn’t need words, and he wasn’t going to overstep.

Sensing the mood growing heavy, Dorian leaned back with an exaggerated grin. “Well, this feels like the perfect time for a song.”

Tache raised an eyebrow, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “A song, huh? Go ahead, bard. Impress us.”

Dorian unslung his lute, strumming a bright, cheerful tune to cut through the lingering melancholy. His voice rang out, weaving a tale of brave heroes, daring adventures, and mercenaries who bested every trial.

Though the story was clearly embellished, Dorian noted with satisfaction how his companions eased into laughter, their weariness replaced by genuine smiles.

For the rest of the night, they talked, joked, and shared what little remained of their provisions. By the time they settled into their bedrolls, the campfire’s embers glowing faintly, Dorian knew this was more than just a passing alliance.

He had found kindred spirits in the most unlikely of places.